


Ship to Wreck

by leafchron



Series: Water [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Ending, Canon Divergence, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafchron/pseuds/leafchron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was going to walk past the boy. He told himself he was going to walk past the boy.</p><p>But the boy had grey eyes. Those were hard to find. It was the grey that did him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ship to Wreck

He was going to walk past the boy. Despite the sharp chin, the deep set, piercing eyes, cheekbones that could cut, the elegant nose, the pale, luminous skin, the head of black, luscious, flowing locks, the air of haughty arrogance around him, the way he held himself. He told himself he was going to walk past the boy.

But the boy had grey eyes. Those were hard to find. The black, long hair wasn’t, but the eyes were usually brown, occasionally blue, and almost never grey. It was the grey that did him in.

The boy caught his eye and held his gaze, almost challenging, knowing that he had him already.

He knew he really shouldn’t. He was having a hard enough time making ends meet, he certainly had no spare money for such ill-advised extravagances.

And the boy – he was so young. He wasn’t innocent anymore, not by any stretch, but that didn’t mean he had any right to sully him further. He was already damaged, still he didn’t have to deal more damage to him.

But the days were so trying and endless and grey, not the luminous, sparkling grey of piercing, mischievous eyes spelling camaraderie, spelling love, promising everything and the world, but the grey of drabness, of dreariness, of despair, of nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes, of missing, of hollowness, of voids that could never be filled.

The grey of nothingness. The exact wrong shade of grey.

He suddenly felt old, so old.

To the boy’s questioning tilt of head, he hesitated, then as though controlled by invisible strings, gave a sharp jerky nod of head. “Only if you don’t speak,” and he brought the boy home.

\--

The boy was on his knees, talented mouth wrapped around his cock, working him at a good rhythm, so skilful it seemed wrong somehow; it was the eyes that threatened to unravel him, rend him apart, destroy him utterly. Grey, sharp eyes wide open, peering up at him, trained on him the whole time as the boy licked, and sucked, and tried to take in as much of him as he could.

He wanted to grab the boy’s long, dark, hair, wrap it around his fist, pull his head close and just fuck his mouth hard, without a care, just hold him there and use him as he wished. The boy’s lips were stretched so prettily, so obscenely around his cock, it was a waste not to use it, to thrust hard and fast and deep into his warm mouth, his eager tongue, to keep going, too fast. Maybe the boy would choke and gag a little, maybe he would tear up from it, maybe it would be too much for him to take, too fast for him to adjust, gasping a little and trying desperately to inhale through his nose and he would have no choice but to take it.

But he thought about his seventh year in school.

Instead, he unwound the hair, let it fall from his fingers, and stroked through the locks gently. He cupped the boy’s cheek carefully, tentatively, tracing thumb lightly over his cheekbone, running fingers down to his chin. He held himself perfectly still, and let the boy proceed at his own pace, unhurried. He didn’t move, didn’t dictate, didn’t command or control, and merely received, and passively accepted whatever he was handed.

Then he pulled away gently and tugged the boy up. “Bed, please. I don’t want to finish this way.”

The boy looked at him, expression in his eyes inscrutable, but obediently followed him to the bed without protest or hesitation.

\--

The boy followed his instruction perfectly the whole time, not a single word fell out of his mouth. He thrust into the boy, languidly, his hands firmly but gently holding onto the boy’s hips, keeping him on his hands and knees. A whole litany of moans, gasps and little whines slipped through though, going straight to his cock. He wondered idly if they were all faked, if the boy had his eyes screwed shut, if his hair was falling into his eyes, if he was biting his lip, in pain? In pleasure?

The boy whimpered helplessly, breathing erratically, and his body shivered and shook uncontrollably as he changed his angle of thrust. He must have hit the right spot then. He paused briefly to lift one hand to smooth over the boy’s sweat-slicked back, to rub soothing circles all the way down his spine, to massage his shoulders until the tension drained out of his shoulders and along the boy’s strong upper arms until they stopped trembling with the effort to hold himself up. He allowed himself one luxury of burying his nose into the boy’s hair, nosing at the base of his scalp, and inhaling once, deeply. He nipped at the boy’s neck, so lightly it barely made a mark, but the boy started and gasped softly. He took the chance to re-position the boy, so the boy’s head was now pillowed on his arms, which were crossed on the bed, his back a smooth downward slide, so he wouldn’t have to strain trying to hold himself up on his arms, so he could rest his chest and head on the bed more comfortably.

Back in position, he started thrusting again, slowly at first, then picking up speed gradually, and going deeper with every thrust, taking care to angle every thrust so he was hitting the boy’s right spot with almost every single thrust, gripping his hips firmly so he couldn’t move away. The boy was mewling, opened-mouth, panting against the bed, hands thrown out to scrabble, paw helplessly at the mattress, fingers twisted painfully in the bedsheets, desperately trying to anchor himself to something.

He removed one hand from the holding onto the boy’s hips and closed it around the boy’s cock. The boy gave a strangled yell. He worked the boy’s cock, tight, firm tugs in time with his thrusts and it only took a dozen pulls before the boy was thrusting frantically into his fist and crying out, choking on words he was trying not to let slip out between his lips, coming, coming hard, wet and warm all over his hand. He stroked the boy through the aftershocks and once the boy’s breathing was somewhere less frantic, he wiped his hand sloppily on the bedsheets and replaced his hand on the boy’s hip and renewed thrusting in earnest. From the way the boy’s body shuddered and the way he whined he suspected the boy might be feeling a little over-sensitised, the sensations too overwhelming after his orgasm, but he was close, so close, he couldn’t stop for anything in the world, his world growing bright and white-hot, and with a few more desperate, hard thrusts he was coming as well, deep inside the boy, and following him through to the other side, white noise screaming in his head, all sensations exploding in him, and then there was nothing.

He pulled out as carefully as he could in his state, and collapsed onto the bed next to the boy. The boy sat up carefully, wincing a bit, and watched him carefully. He shut his eyes; those grey eyes were suddenly unbearable. He was tempted to turn over and bury his face in his pillow and never surface for air.

Eyes still shut, he could feel the grey eyes trained on him, making his skin prickle and crawl, and he wished the boy would just look away. Finally, he felt the boy getting up from the bed and heard him padding away.

He tried to not remember similar grey eyes gazing fondly at him, post-coital, in the four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dormitories, tried to not wonder about what those grey eyes would think of him, now; if they could see him, now.

 

* * *

 

Sirius padded back to bed, and dropped a wet flannel on his stomach.

“Alright?” He opened his eyes, to see Sirius lying on his side next to him, propped up on his arm, peering at him, gaze concerned and infused with warmth. He nodded, grabbed the flannel, and cleaned himself up best as he could. Then he tossed the flannel aside, not caring where it landed, and grabbed Sirius’s hand, interlocking their fingers with one hand. With the other he tugged Sirius until Sirius fell over on him and he was close enough to kiss him, bruising and Sirius matched him every step of the way.

When they finally pulled apart he was trying to catch his breath and Sirius was smirking at him.

“You know, Moony, I can understand the whole fetishising my eighteen-year-old self, because, let’s admit it, I was _gorgeous_ then, I was irresistible.”

He snorted, shook his head, rolled his eyes, but still tightly clasping Sirius’ hand in his.

“But what I don’t understand is why you’d want to do it _this_ way, you masochist.”

“I was thinking,” he mused thoughtfully, tracing circles in Sirius’ palm, “It would’ve been awful, just awful, and unbearable beyond words, if you’d actually fallen through the veil and were lost for good. Especially after everything.”

Sirius snorted in turn, and he Sirius must’ve thought he was barmy, but Sirius’ eyes were just a little soft, a little sad and he thinks he reads understanding in them. “That is a bloody understatement, Moony. Terrible. Terrible! Why are you thinking such morbid thoughts and killing me off in your head?”

He allowed himself a small smile, face buried in the crock of Sirius’s shoulder. “Yes, it would’ve been terrible. I just wanted to remind myself.”

He can’t see Sirius’ face, but he knows Sirius’ eyes are fond and amused, and his voice is laced with warmth as arms tightened around him. “Well, it’s a good thing it didn’t happen then. None of that happened. It’s not a bloody tragedy, Moony. It didn’t happen like that. Get that into your head.”

He acquiesced, grinning widely, and wrapped an arm in return around the clingy figure moulded to him now, feeling something unfurl leisurely from his heart. “Good thing that didn’t happen, indeed.”

 


End file.
